Detective, deduce thyself
by 1alucard1
Summary: -Complete - In my (and other's) opinion, Sherlock realizes during the course of Series 3 that he is in love with John Watson. This story is about how John realizes it too and confronts Sherlock about it. I wrote this because I was sick and tired of John and Sherlock not talking about their feelings. Hence, the story is mostly John and Sherlock talking about their feelings.
1. Chapter 1

Notes: I posted this story on Archive of Our Own as well, so if you also hang out there, this might look familiar to you. This is my first work in this fandom, so I would really, really appreciate if you could give me some feedback. I plan to write further chapters for this if anybody is interested.

* * *

John Watson lay wide awake in the middle of the night. It was becoming a bad habit of his. Mary was sleeping peacefully next to him. Or maybe she was just pretending to be asleep, he thought bitterly. He took a deep breath. He had known from the start that forgiving her would not be an easy process, but he caught himself time and again having these nasty thoughts, and he was, quite frankly, tired of it.

The events of the last months were tumbling through his head in a tangled mess. Sherlock's return, the wedding, Sherlock getting shot, Sherlock shooting Magnussen, Sherlock getting on the plane. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. He was probably chasing down some lead or other on Moriarty right now, putting himself in harm's way yet again.

John had never considered himself a thoughtful person. Sure, he had to reflect on their cases when he was still writing the blog, but he never really dwelt on the past. His therapist would probably have something to say about his preference for burying the things that happen to him rather than examining them. Similarly, he never really felt the need to think about his feelings. Things just were the way they were.

But somehow, tonight seemed to be the exception. Maybe it was because it was 3 in the morning and he had the distinct impression that he hadn't slept a second this night. Or maybe he was just too fucking tired to keep his usual walls up, but tonight his head swam with flashbacks of everything that had happened in the past few months.

He thought back to his wedding day, how nervous he had been, how much he wanted everything to be just perfect. How, in the end, there had been an attempted murder at this wedding and still everything had turned out to be perfect. Well, everything except the bride.

He remembered finding Sherlock in that crack house, his shock and disappointment, and maybe a tiny twinge of guilt. He got married and in spite of all his assertions to the contrary, he knew that it would irrevocably change their relationship. He had probably even known on some level that Sherlock would cope with it badly, but he had never expected this.

He saw the moment when Sherlock took the gun from him in perfect clarity, the second when time stopped and he aimed the gun at Magnussen's head. On the first day they met, John killed a man to protect Sherlock. But that had been very different from this. He was, at the time, fairly certain that he wouldn't get caught, that there would, at least, be no legal consequences for his actions. Sherlock knew that he was giving away his freedom and with it the chance to continue his work. Until that moment , John would have sworn, under oath and in front of a jury if need be, that his work was the single most important thing in Sherlock's life and nothing would ever take precedence over it.

He remembered vividly saying goodbye to Sherlock on the airfield. How Sherlock seemed close to tears but still made an effort to lighten the mood, for his benefit. Sherlock's little speech about sharing a secret with him that he had been keeping for a long time and how he chickened out in the end.

And through it all, he heard one voice clearly, speaking to him with an unmistakable smugness.

You see, John, but you do not observe.

* * *

John Watson was standing in the freezing cold in front of Baker Street 221B and wondering, not for the first time, what the hell he was doing. It was still early and the street was completely deserted. Faced with the cold reality of the door his decision to come and speak with Sherlock seemed stupid and irrational. Even if his realization turned out to be correct, there really was nothing to talk about. He was married. He was going to be a father. So why was he standing in front of his best friend's flat at 4 in the morning? Why was his heart pounding in his chest as if he had run all the way here?

He stared at the knocker, which was slightly askew, and couldn't help but smile. He decided to go in, because he knew that if he didn't do it now, he would never again pluck up the courage to do it and he would always wonder.

When he opened the door to the flat itself and stood in the living room, he felt eerily calm.

Sherlock was staring at the living room wall with a frown on his face. It was covered with newspaper snippets and other information about Moriarty and had little bits of thread connecting different pieces. It looked, for all intents and purposes, like the work of a crazy conspiracy theorist.

He looked over at John and did not seem at all surprised to see him standing in his living room at this hour. John assumed that he probably had no idea what time of day it was, anyway.

"I just can't figure out how he did it. I do realize the irony in that."

John took a deep breath. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. No, it was most certainly a terrible idea.

"I need to talk to you."

"John, as always, you are wasting valuable time. Clearly, we are already talking."

John paused for a moment, unsure what he wanted to say. He wasn't good at this sort of thing.

"On the airfield, you said that there is something you always wanted to tell me but never did."

That finally got Sherlock's attention away from the wall. He raised an eyebrow and gave him one of his piercing stares that always made John feel as he was trying to deduce the color of his soul, but he didn't reply.

"Say it now."

"It was a joke."

"No, it wasn't."

Clearly, this would be even more difficult than John had expected. He sighed, closed his eyes for a moment and pinched his nose wearily. He was way too tired for this conversation.

"Fine. We will do it your way. Always your way." With that, he grabbed a surprised Sherlock by the shoulders and shoved him down to sit on the couch. He kept his hands firmly planted on his shoulders and leaned down right into his personal space. He hovered with his face a mere inch away from Sherlock's as they locked eyes.

"What the hell, John."

John didn't reply, but instead continued to stare into his friend's eyes as if he was searching for something there. When he finally did reply, it was in the cold, analytical tone with which Sherlock usually rattled off his deductions.

"Your pupils are dilating. Your cheeks are flushed. Your heartbeat has increased considerably in the last seconds. Your breathing is becoming more and more uneven. Tell me, what does this mean, detective?"

"It means I'm getting angry."

"No, it doesn't. Try again."

"I ..." Suddenly, Sherlock seemed unable to look him in the eyes any longer. His gaze drifted to the floor, to the window, anywhere but John. He made a move to try and get up, but John gently pushed him down again.

"Detective, deduce thyself."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at that and almost seemed his usual self again for a moment.

"Seriously, John?"

"Fine, maybe that was a little over the top. But it doesn't change the facts. What did you want to tell me on the airfield?"

"What does it matter now? You're with Mary. You're having a baby."

"It matters to me."

"No good will come of this, John."

"Tell me."

Sherlock finally looked him in the eyes again. It seemed for a moment that he was going to speak but then his expression changed and he forcefully pushed John's hands off his shoulders and stormed out of the flat.

John sat down heavily on the table and stared at the empty doorway. The expression had been there only for a split second, but it reminded John of the Baskerville case. If he were asked to describe it, he would have called it mortal fear.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock returned to the flat, cold and miserable. He stopped in his tracks when he caught sight of the couch. He had anticipated that John would have given up by now and returned home. He realized the flaw in his assumption immediately. He had neglected to factor in John's exhaustion. _You're slipping, Sherlock_ he chided himself.

He was unsure how to proceed. He could simply flee the flat again and return when he could be certain that he would be alone. He could also try to sneak into his bedroom and lock the door. Both sounded childish, even in the privacy of his own mind. Then again, that had seldom stopped him before.

With a sigh he sat down on the table in almost the same spot where John had been earlier and studied the man across from him. Clearly, John had stubbornly decided that Sherlock would not get away from this conversation so easily. Now he was fast asleep, leaned back in a sitting position on the couch. Sherlock could already see exactly in which spots his neck and shoulders would be sore in the morning from his awkward sleeping position.

Sherlock saw the dark circles under his eyes, saw his furrowed brow, saw a man that even in his sleep looked tired and worried. It tugged at something deep inside him, something that he kept hidden in the darkest corner in the basement of his mind palace. He had buried it there, in the hope that this act would keep it from his mind and from his heart. But he had always known that he was kidding himself. Just like he knew as soon as he started his little speech at the airfield that he would not have the courage to see it through. For all his bravery, for the countless times he had faced death with determination, this was beyond his capabilities. John had changed his life in a million gigantic and tiny ways, had changed Sherlock himself for the better. But this he had not in him. He knew that he would never muster up the courage to tell his friend how he really felt. There was just too much at stake. He had wondered countless times during the last months whether it would have been better if he had never met John Watson. If he had never known how alone he had been before and how alone he would be again. Every time that thought came to him, he would think back to the moment that felt so long ago when they were standing in the hallway, giddy from the chase, out of breath and laughing. And he knew with certainty that he was better off for getting to experience this, that it was worth all of it. If given the chance to relive that day, he would do nothing different, not a second of it. He would meet John Watson again and fall in love with him again and be a better man for it.

He let his eyes stray over the sleeping man in front of him once more and locked the memory of it away with the others. What happened next took Sherlock by surprise. He could not remember a moment when he made the decision to speak, the words just tumbled out of him and he was unable to contain them. The first sentence was barely above a whisper, but with each sentence his voice became stronger and filled with more certainty.

"I love you, John Hamish Watson. I loved you since I looked at you standing calmly amidst a sea of police cars and realized you had shot a man to protect me. Or maybe I loved you from the moment I laid out your life story to you and instead of telling me to go away you called me brilliant. Or maybe I loved you from the moment I met you, when I read the facts of your life like a book, but could never have come close to seeing the depth of your heart." Tears were streaming down his face now, but he paid them no mind. "And I am so, so sorry that I didn't have the courage to tell you any of this when it would have mattered. I am so, so sorry that I will never tell you any of this when you can hear it. Because you deserve to know. You deserve to know that you are amazing and kind and perfect. And I wish I could be the kind of man to deserve you. Forgive me, John." When he said that last sentence, John stirred and Sherlock's heart stopped. Then, very slowly, John opened his eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock's thoughts were racing. _When I came in, John's breathing pattern was typical of a sleeping man. There was nothing in his posture and muscle relaxation indicating a man faking sleep. When did he wake up? How much has he heard? _

Sherlock realized with a start that his heart was racing and that he was shaking slightly. There were a couple of other warning signs that told him that he was about to experience some form of a panic attack. A small part of his brain was busy analysing this process and collecting data for later study. The rest of it was busy freaking out.

He tried to stand up and make a run for it, but his knees buckled. He caught the table with one hand and managed to end up in a half-kneeling position on the floor. In the moment of his fall, John's hands had shot forward, trying to give him some support. One of them was gripping his right arm, the other was now resting on his back, close to his shoulder. John had yet to utter a sound.

Sherlock risked a glance at John's face. He wore a look of shocked surprise. _Shit. I've ruined everything. Shit. Shit. Shit. _

"Sherlock." There was concern in John's voice and an undertone that sounded suspiciously like pity to Sherlock. He couldn't bear it and violently drew back from John's touch, staggering over to his armchair. Once seated there, with a small distance between himself and John, he felt a little calmer. He stared straight ahead, addressing the empty armchair in front of him.

"John, whatever you heard or think you heard, it is for the best if we never speak of it again. Let us consider it a momentary lapse. It never happened." His voice sounded strained and unnatural to his own ears.

John was silent for a long time, but Sherlock couldn't muster up the courage to turn and look at him.  
When he finally spoke, he sounded more tired than ever. "If that's what you want."

"Yes, that is very much what I want. Thank you for understanding."

Sherlock felt relief flood him. Everything would be alright. They would be alright. They would bury this moment along with all the others like it and never speak of it again.

"No."

Sherlock finally turned to face John at that. He heard a multitude of emotions expressed in that one syllable and needed to see what exactly John was feeling. John was leaned back on the couch again and had his eyes closed. His seemingly relaxed posture was betrayed by the fact that his fists were clenching and unclenching at his sides. Sherlock saw that he wanted to say more but was struggling to find the right words.

When he finally spoke, he opened his eyes but didn't change his posture and his stare was fixed on the ceiling. Sherlock had expected to hear anger in his voice, but it was filled with resignation and bitterness.

"Why does every single thing in my life have to be so bloody complicated? Maybe you're right, maybe it is me, maybe I deserve it. I thought I could have this one normal thing, have a normal relationship, have a normal wife." He gave a short, bitter laugh. "I honestly made myself believe that I could have it all, chasing criminals with you and living a quiet family life in the suburbs. And I had so hoped that this" he gestured vaguely from Sherlock to himself "that this could just go back to the way it was before you … disappeared. But no. Everything's a mess and I have no idea how to fix it."

He sat upright on the couch and rubbed his hands over his eyes. When he pulled them away, he looked straight at Sherlock.

"There is one thing I do know though. I know that I don't want to go on like this. Go on pretending that Mary and I are not in big trouble. Go on pretending that you and I" he drew in a sharp breath "that we are just best mates. And honest to God, Sherlock, I don't even know what we are." It seemed for a moment that he was going to say more but then he closed his eyes and buried his head in his hands. His shoulders slumped in defeat.

Sherlock spoke so softly that John barely heard him. "What do you want us to be?"

John jumped up from the couch and started pacing the room. "I have no fucking idea what I want!" Sherlock flinched. John realized that he was almost yelling and made an effort to get his voice back under control. "That's what got us in this bloody mess in the first place! And _you_" he stopped pacing to glare accusingly at Sherlock "_you_ with your 'I'm married to my work' bullshit! Those things you just said to me when you thought I was asleep" he saw Sherlock turn a pale shade of white that was unnatural even by his standards. "Don't you think that would have been something to mention, I don't know, 3 years ago? Or maybe, ANY TIME before I got MARRIED?" Now he was definitely yelling.

"It was true when I said it." Again, Sherlock's voice was barely above a whisper. I sounded completely different from his usual commanding tone.

"What?"

"I meant it when I told you I considered myself married to my work. Before I met you, I never for a second entertained the idea that there could ever be something as important as the work in my life." He paused for a beat. "I had most certainly never considered that there could ever be something more important."

John's anger evaporated as quickly as it had manifested. He sat down heavily in the chair across from Sherlock. He suddenly felt tired to his very bones. He reflected that this was probably a bad time to be having this conversation. Then again, it never seemed to be the right time to talk about this.

"So, where does this leave us, then?"

"Honestly, John, I have no idea. I'm rubbish at this. Let's face it, you're rubbish at this as well. That's what got us in this bloody mess in the first place, as you so eloquently put it."

Sherlock paused for a moment. It looked like he was collecting his thoughts, which baffled John, who could for the life of him not remember Sherlock Holmes taking a moment to collect his thoughts ever before.

"In my opinion, the most logical course of action is to continue without change. You are a married man. You are reasonably happy with Mary, you are going to be a father. I would wish for us to continue our work together, but I can understand if you don't want to do that after what happened. I can assure you that I will keep my feelings" he almost spat the word out as if it had an unpleasant taste "in check and they will not affect our working relationship."

John looked thoughtful and didn't reply for a long time, which made Sherlock shift in his chair nervously.

"What? Did I say anything wrong?"

John got up slowly. He put his hands behind his back and continued to look Sherlock straight in the eye. His expression was open and unguarded.

Sherlock realised several things at once. Firstly, John was waiting for him to deduce from his expression and body language what he was about to do. Secondly, he was waiting in order to give Sherlock the choice to stop him before he ever actually took any action. Thirdly, he could see John's thoughts unfold with perfect clarity. He could almost hear John say the words out loud. _Fuck the logical course of action. Fuck being reasonably happy. Fuck it all to hell. _


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock felt his heartbeat speed up and noticed that his breathing was becoming irregular as well. He also realized with a start that he had somehow drifted to the very edge of his seat.

He searched John's face to make sure that his deductions were correct. It seemed plausible that his emotions could be clouding his reasoning and that his assumptions were merely a product of wishful thinking. Sherlock studied John's face with scrutiny and was surprised once more at what he saw there.

John looked completely calm and relaxed. It seemed as if a great weight had suddenly left his shoulders. To Sherlock, he looked like a man who had been struggling with something for a long time and had now made his peace with it.

There was also a hint of a question in his look. Sherlock swallowed and closed his eyes. In his mind, he went down, far down, and forced open a heavily barricaded door. It had huge warning signs and several sets of locks. He looked inside and saw a thousands moments of their life together. They were mundane, yet their combined force took his breath away. John standing in their kitchen, making tea. John sitting on the couch, writing his blog. John laughing at something stupid that Sherlock had done. John looking at him with amazement in his eyes after Sherlock had laid out a long series of deductions.

Sherlock was suddenly flooded with a feeling of warmth and yearning that shocked him in its intensity. He thought distractedly that he shouldn't be surprised, really, since this was exactly the reason why he had locked these memories away in the first place.

He stared in wonder at the enormity of John's room in his mind palace. While he hadn't been looking, the room had expanded and tunnelled through the foundations of his palace in all directions. Sherlock realized that he had been stupid to think he had securely locked away his feelings for John. He may have barred them from his conscious thoughts by blocking the door, but that had only kept him from realizing how thoroughly the former cold and clinical halls of his mind palace had already been compromised by John's presence.

Out in the real world, Sherlock took a shaky breath and gave an almost imperceptible nod. Without opening his eyes, he knew that John was smiling down on him.

Sherlock wanted to open his eyes and see John leaning down to him, but he was frozen in place and unable to move. His fingers were grasping the chair's armrests so hard that his knuckles were turning white. He was also starting to feel a little bit silly. _People all over the world do this every day. You've kissed people before_. _Pull yourself together_.

John ended up half-kneeling in front of Sherlock. For a second, the thought flashed through his mind that this was a really awkward position for a first kiss. Then he stared at Sherlock and the look of intense concentration he saw on his face made him almost giggle. It was so typically Sherlock and it hit him in that moment that he was about to kiss Sherlock Holmes. How many times had he thought about doing this? How many times had he stopped dead in his tracks, dumbstruck by something Sherlock had said or done or just by the way he simply _was_, fantasizing about this moment? How many times had he shut those thoughts down with ruthless ferocity?

He tentatively put his right hand on Sherlock's cheek and slowly traced his thumb over his friend's cheekbone. He almost expected Sherlock to flinch away at the touch, suddenly realizing that this was all a big mistake. But Sherlock stayed frozen in place, looking like a marble statue of a Greek God.

John hesitated. He was keenly aware that this was the point of no return. This was the moment when he had to admit to himself that all of his denials might have been not entirely truthful. He wasn't gay. That much was true. But this had never been the question that people asked him. Are you in love with Sherlock Holmes? There was the crux of the matter. _Well, are you, John?_ The voice in his head sounded suspiciously like Sherlock's baritone.

Unbidden, the image of Sherlock on the roof of St. Bart's came to his mind. He had told himself for a long time that what he had felt that day was due only to the tragic loss of his best friend. In hindsight, he suspected that he would have been better off allowing himself to mourn the true extend of his loss. _Because he isn't just your best friend, is he?_

Sherlock felt John's hesitation and for a moment thought that John would bolt from the flat. In that one second, he saw the future play out in his mind's eye. They would go back to not talking about this and John would go back to Mary. John would be a husband and a father. He would excel at both, but he wouldn't be happy. Sherlock would go back to doing his work alone. He would excel at that as usual, but it would be meaningless without John to share it with. It played out with perfect clarity in his mind. He saw himself as an old man, sitting in this very chair, wishing he could go back to this moment and do it differently. _Idiot_, he thought to himself, _You are still in that moment. Do it differently._

Sherlock opened his eyes and saw confirmed what he already knew. John had not, in fact, run from the flat.

John was still amazed that after all this time, he could never finally decide what colour Sherlock's eyes were. Every time he thought he had it figured out, they seemed to change. In a moment of temporary insanity, he had suspected Sherlock of doing it on purpose, just to annoy him. Now he was staring at them and their colour was as elusive as ever. _Enough stalling, John. Now or never._

John's hand was still on Sherlock's cheek. He closed the small gap still separating them and kissed Sherlock. It was a chaste kiss, a mere brush of lips. Their position was awkward and they bumped noses and John thought it was the most perfect first kiss of his life.

He pulled back and opened his eyes. Sherlock had that look of intense concentration again, as if filing away data for later study. John couldn't help but smile. He was struck by an intense urge to run his hand through Sherlock's curls. He decided not to fight it. Sherlock gave him a surprised look.

"Problem?"

Sherlock could clearly hear the mirth in John's voice.

"No, I just didn't expect it."

"You have no idea how long I have wanted to that."

"The kissing?"

"No, the hair thing. Well, and the kissing."

"Hm."

John was grinning from ear to ear. Sherlock looked like he was trying to figure out a complicated puzzle. John was wondering if Sherlock had always looked this adorable when thinking and he had just never allowed himself to see it.

"What now?"

"What now what?"

"John, do not try my patience. What happens now? You are a married man."

John gave a long groan and lowered his head to rest against Sherlock's shoulder.

"You had to bring that up now, didn't you." His voice was muffled.

"Me bringing it up or not does not change the facts."

"How about we figure this thing out one issue at a time?"

John pulled back and looked at Sherlock. He had to smile again.

"Besides, I think I've done quite enough talking about my feelings for this night. Probably for this month. Maybe this year."

"John, the facts are also not changed by you wanting to talk or not talk about-"

Sherlock didn't get any further because John used the hand in his hair to pull him down into another kiss.


End file.
